A Slow Waltz
by Mr. Skurleton
Summary: Arriving at the Winter Palace amidst a night of celebrations and conspiracies our favorite well dressed mage makes a teasing little challenge to the Inquisitor. What follows, well you'll just have to read to find out.
1. Chapter 1

"If you can find me ten silk scarves I've got a dance that will really shock them."

His grin is devious. It always is. Canines bite into the slender lip he pulls beneath them, worrying the pale flesh until it flushes pink.

"Do you now?" Even in this crowded courtyard, with orlesian nobility chittering from behind their gilded masks and silk gloves, his lover makes no attempt to hide.

Dorian can't help but incline his head with subtle hint toward the nearest couple. Emerald skirts lined with an ungodly amount of lace, and beside her? A man wearing too many rings on plump fingers. They are either poor players of the grand game or they simply do not care. For their eyes have been pinpricks in his spine since he left Bull at the buffet tables. Careless regard that is all for show has melted into naked attention covered only by a painted fan in the woman's right hand.

Lavellan doesn't even glance.

No plumage for the marked one, he slinks with exotic grace that dares for errant comment. He has remained guarded beneath a veil of deep bows and well plucked platitudes since their arrival. But not with Dorian, oh no. ' _let them see.'_ His eyes whisper, helio blue and shining with curling invitation. Never mind that he is savage to them, or worse, _rabbit_.

It could go no other way. Twenty minutes at this facade of civility and every head has turned at least once. Should the mage blame them? Did not his own gaze linger first? Formal attire, tailored masterfully to his thin frame, that mane of grey tamed just for the night by Dorian's own hand. He cuts a clean figure, polished silver and slick black satin no different from what Dorian himself wears at this very moment. But even in human finery Lavellan is ever himself, and the painted faces have noticed. To what end... the evening has yet to decide.

Dorian raises his glass even as he curses the liquor with in. It would appear the punch is as strong as it seems.

"Well if you're going to dance with the 'evil magister' you might as well give them a good show." He had been joking, it should have been obvious. But Lavellan is giving him that long look with that implicating smile... no, smirk. That which sets a glow just under his fair skin and crinkles the corners of his eyes beneath their kohl lining. He wields it well and only for a moment, just a little affirmation. Such a promise is dangerous back at Skyhold, here it could prove fatal for them both. Dorian would chastise him were others not listening to their every word. "It'll have to be later of course, there are other dances waiting for you."

"Quite a few I believe, but I'll think of something... trust me." The touch of his gaze and warmth of his body linger long after they've parted company. It always does.

* * *

Dorian amuses himself to quell the feeling of absence that lurks at his heels and wears the mask of boredom. It's been an hour and the only thing of interest is the peculiar flavor of ham being passed around on silver trays. Not even the punch can fully cleanse it from his tongue, not that he isn't trying while he eyes the hidden faces around him. He notes a Marquis whose dress is an affront to more than just fashion and a Dowager who has just told a joke worse than any he's ever heard from Bull. No sign of assassins beyond those targeting good taste. He ponders lighting something aflame just to brighten the mood.

But as he picks at a nonexistent snag on his sleeve and rolls the knots from his shoulders he hears it. Too faint at first to be more than mere suggestion. Thick orlesian accents that twist syllables into such lofty obscurity, it makes even the act of listening a trial all its own. So he drifts closer to the nearest tangle of people so casually even his own mother would have to applaud. And it is all too easy to dissimulate intent with the aid of fragile blooms. Conveniently positioned wisteria creeping from its planter, carefully cared for and pleasantly close to occupied stone benches is all it takes to complete the disguise of aloofness Dorian adopts.

Inbetwixt the faux flattery and underhanded insults stirs a begrudging sense of approval. It comes slow at first, sweet breeze of compliment and admiration from wine loosed lips. And with them a name that soon all are familiar with. But it is only the last half and the title, never the first. As he studies the contents of his second glass he wonders if any of them even know it. His own lips curl across the rim while the spice and bite run over his tongue. For the best really, he does not wish to share its taste.

Goblet now empty he sets it on the stone besides him only to see it whisked away by a servant. Timid little thing, round eyes and freckled skin beneath a fringe of blonde hair. In such a hurry too, just like the others. Time in the south, time with the inquisition has trained him to things of which he was once blind. And he sees them even though those around him do not. In every shadowed nook and prowling the balcony above the garden, Halamshiral's elves are no more visible to the people they serve than the currents of the wind. So like home he can almost smell the coppery aroma of blood at the back of his throat.

Another pair of pointed ears appears from the crowd, a loud and recognized pair. Sera, pulling at her sleeves and rolling her eyes at every feathered hat, makes a beeline for him. She bumps his ribs lightly with an elbow and smirks while he glowers.

"Hey you, what's your face long for? Thought you'd feel right in bed with this lot."

"Truly, I'll never want for company again." He does not roll his eyes, he will not give her the victory so easily. "Have you come to enjoy the air? Or did you just tire of watching all the trays go by?"

The look she gives is askance and this time he does roll his eyes. "Thought you had a task you were looking after?" he adds in a voice more hushed. How odd that Sera seems to only understand sharp things no matter how vague she speaks.

"Pfft, I did that, and now I'm doing something else."

"Which is?"

"Getting your arse of course." Ever cheery, even with the tightness at the corners of her mouth. How long will she last before some 'nob' ends up 'accidentally' sitting in a 'misplaced' custard? Dorian wishes only to witness the eventual blow out she'll cause. So much for Josephine's chiding.

"Something's up in the kitchens," she finishes with the slightest nod. "Bull's got the stuff and I've got you."

"And our darling Herald?"

"Passing word to little miss pretty bird. Heard he found some stuff on some git or other. Like being a nob isn't bad enough. Don't know which one though. All kind of look the same, yeah?" She is tugging on his elbow, but has enough time to cock a brow when she considers the tone of his question.

"What ever you think you know Sera, not a word." He knows he's said it too quickly when her brows draw together and it is especially clear when her fist connects affably with the arm she's already commandeered. But she says nothing that isn't hidden in a toothy grin and merely ushers him through gold trimmed doors.

* * *

His handkerchief is ruined. No spell of cleansing or good scrub will ever get the blood stains out now. At his feet a corpse still smoulders on one side, turning Venatori red into fitting black. It felt lovely to char the grin from this idiot but it has done a number on his own clothes and that is a pity. Thankfully he prepared for this, no fewer than six sets of robes lay tucked away in the room he'll eventually see at the end of this mess of an evening. Well, provided he survives and the civil war doesn't erupt within Halamshiral's marble halls before the night is done. But that doesn't deal with the immediate problem of blood on his face.

"Does anyone else have a handkerchief they'd be willing to part with?" Even before he asks he knows the pickings will be slim. Bull is far more interested in cleaning his weapon off on the doublet of the nearest corpse, Sera is too busy lightening the pockets of the dead and the Inquisitor? Off with the Elven 'ambassador' on the balcony beyond.

If he strains he can just make them out over the music filtering up from the ballroom.

Briala does not strike kind when she brandishes a blade and appears to treat words in the same manner. Implication drips like a poison through otherwise casual words. Guilt is her first choice, as if they hadn't just fought through a swarm of Venatori agents responsible for killing countless elves. And where had the ambassador been? Watching her ex lover, and the man who wishes to be king. But no, she needles Lavellan with the reminder of what city elves must endure. She is wasting her breath. And when this becomes clear? It's as if she's never mentioned it.

She is so quick to switch tactics when no ground is given. Bribery plays its tune next, a chorus that has even Bull chuckling beneath his breath. A feeling shared as Dorian slides his staff through the leather loops on his back. No matter the locale, regardless of the time, there is always someone somewhere vying for the Inquisitor's favor, support or dime. It's a point of pride that Dorian himself does not number among them.

"You know how to make a sales pitch I'll give you that." Cey's baritone is a touch harder to hear and for a moment Dorian isn't sure he's heard it right. Not the words, those are clear enough, but the undercurrent, the subtle lilt at the end. It sounds too pleased, too charming… makes his mind turn to unpleasant places, old wounds and the memory of their ache.

"Seriously no one? I'd even take plaideweave at this point." The pitch of his own voice drowns out what ever response Briala gives. He doesn't need to hear it to find it annoying.

Cey steps back inside and catches him with a quizzical look. There is a smudge of crimson down one cheek and wisps of his hair have worked free of braid that once confined them. They hover at the edges, framing a face Dorian has seen too often in the space behind his eyelids.

"Surely you have one yes? Some hopeful maid or silly countess must have slipped you one as a token or something."

"No and we don't have time to find any either. We stay here any longer and they'll start to wonder where we've gone." The bells are already chiming. Ten tolls, a musical way to keep the time for most, an unwitting warning to them.

Dorian sighs and makes sure Cey sees it before closing the distance between them. He has to step over several severed limbs and a deceased bard to do it but as he takes Cey by the jaw and uses the last clean corner of his ruined handkerchief to clean the Herald's cheek it becomes worth it. That smile is still there, the one only for him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dance with me." But reputation is ever the thin shield and scandal a hungry blade. "Dance with me." Does he even know what he is asking? Throw wide the doors dear Herald, invite the world to ready the killing blow. It could cost the inquisition everything. But Lavellan sways to a rhythm that can not be denied.

Dorian lingers on the sidelines, fingertips brushing along cold marble railing with gold trim. It's been hours since Cey asked for that simple token and the sound echoes in his mind, a bare faced challenge coiled in three words. He need only flick his gaze below to have those blades pushed a little deeper betwixt his ribs.

Of course there is no heat between the dancers he's watching. It is the circle of predator and prey while onlookers such as he decipher which shall be conversation is lost beneath the orchestra, high strings and playful flutes make for a fast paced cavort. Each step is measured and extended just so.

Yet the image aches all the same and the only remedy he has could burn far worse. That there is only glass smiles and meaningless exchanges passing between the Duchess and his lover does not soothe.

"You are an excellent teacher my dear Josephine. I don't think he's stepped on her foot even once yet."

Lady Montilyet pries herself away from reprimanding her sister to follow Dorian's line of sight. She shakes her head, turns back to him and holds a hand to Yvette to keep her from commenting.

"His worship was very skilled in evading the tutor I hired to teach him the art of the waltz. It is a relief to see those lessons weren't necessary." She comes to join him at the rail, and her sister trails behind with a swish of skirts.

"Of course, it did cost the inquisition several satchels of coin and two Antivan paintings to ease Madame Haelia's feelings of slight." A rueful smirk plays across her face before she continues. "Which reminds me Yvette, have you…" But the younger Montilyet has fled before the scolding can land.

To the tune of antivan curses barely muttered Josephine does not throw her hands in the air though it is clear she very much wishes to do just that. Instead she smoothes a hand down her front and returns her attention to the dance floor. Soon, she is picking out a half dozen other dancers and giving them names as they twirl across the gleaming floor. Each comes with a tie or motive, some little secret gathered from Halamshiral's hidden places. It appears that no one dances for the joy of it, only to be seen. Dorian muses on which motivates Lavellan as the music dies and the partners fall back.

* * *

Never has the Winter Palace known such silence. No music stirs, no cacophony of strings and no cheers trumpet victory as Lavellan kicks the world out from underneath the grand duchess with only his words. They are too stunned to murmur. Lips that were born to gossip and tongues bred to wag have stilled beneath the sweep of that gaze and the only sound to fill that gilded cavern is the sobbing of a lone woman in a butterfly mask.

Florianne is dragged from her prone position and hauled from sight as surely as the pickpocket whose fingers were not quite fleet enough. None will meet her eye except Dorian, a glass in his hand, a mock salute as she is frogmarched past where he stands in the crowd. It is petty and yet uniquely satisfying. He savors the flush of a plan gone right for once and drains the glass as if in toast.

The rest follows in such swift succession that it's a wonder any have strength to withstand the whiplash. All the kings and queens retreat from the board beneath the sweep of a wild card thrown into their midst and the pawns and knights are left to wonder who has won. It is minutes, it is hours. It takes too long, it takes no time at all. They return as a unified voice, an empress and two elves. The knight who would have been king is gone and his absence does not go unnoticed. But those nearest Dorian do not speak, and when the three figures above open their mouths it is rapture upon those below.

There is endless fanfare to follow, it is after all Orlais and nothing is done that is not done to excess. How good natured these drunk nobles must be to so readily accept an elf in their ranks. Stranger still the veneration they show the Herald as Celene presents him with the spoils of war. Gaspard's sword, a promise of support against Corypheus, an unspoken thank you as her eyes look everywhere but at the elven woman standing at her side. Dorian can not help the shake of his head, it is all too familiar even in the ways in which it is foreign. He wishes the erstwhile lovers luck for they will need it. They will all need it.

Dorian finds Lavellan after an endless parade of people with oh so important business to discuss. He has had no such trouble shaking unwanted attention though it came upon him in waves. Yes, suddenly he's so interesting for reason beyond birth and fade touched ability. He could dance a jig around this crowd in their current state and he doubts it would do a damn thing. There is only so much shock one place can endure upon a single night.

But he is distracted by a slump of shoulders, he is caught by a sight few are allowed to see. Lavellan leans with pointed elbows upon cold stone railing, braided hair coiled between long fingers and his eyes closed as he thinks himself quite alone. It is only when Dorian's fingertip trails along a shoulder and lingers for a moment upon an ear tip that Cey straightens, feigns a sturdiness that is a lie. Dorian lets him have it just this once. He doesn't believe it for a second, the ghost of exhaustion has never been so clear as it hovers beyond those rings of helio blue. But he's earned it and so the altus lets it slide.

"I would have been here sooner but I was accosted by the most ancient dowager you can imagine. Said she was looking for you. Said she had seven daughters. Asked me if you preferred blondes or brunettes." He can't help a touch of deception himself as he settles with his back to the stunning midnight view beyond the balcony. He doesn't need to see it, everything he wants for the moment is beside him, brows drawn in amusement even as Lavellan's mouth tries for a quirk of admonishment. Dorian does not relinquish the moment, "I told her you'd retired for the evening. Would you like to thank me now or later?"

"That depends on how you'd like to be thanked. I'm not sure Halamshiral is ready for any more scandal tonight," Lavellan says, though the sensuous tangle of his inflection implies he's willing to test just how much scandal the Winter Palace can take.

"Are you sure? You could let your hair down and we could let Sera start throwing custards around. That would certainly give them something to talk about tomorrow." He leans in dangerously close to that sharp face, those waiting lips and whispers the beginning of a promise. "Or perhaps what you really need is a distraction." Ah the years that have gone into perfecting that purr. Dorian wields it now not with the bitter edge of brief liaison but instead with a soothing ache that squeezes his own chest as much as it makes Lavellan shiver.

But Lavellan doesn't reach for him as he might have back at Skyhold. He's respecting Dorian's boundaries, walking the edges of those walls and standing patiently on the other side waiting for the invitation. Dorian tugs the supple leather gloves from his hands and tucks them away. Though it will be only a fraction of what he wants, any skin contact will be better than none. He holds out his hand, smiles in that maskless way he's still not quite familiar with and says the words he knows they both want to hear.

"Dance with me."

* * *

It is ever an amusing struggle with Dorian. Lavellan leans into the warmth of him, the scent beyond the satin he's wearing, beyond the soap he used that afternoon after their long ride to the palace, underneath the cologne that graces his skin and comes in small glass bottles. He has no name for what lies under it all, he has only the tightness of his lungs as Dorian's hand slides to the small of his back and he tries to breathe in all that is the man in his arms. Desire does not go far enough and love feels flimsy and over used like a word stretched until it can hold no meaning. He is comfort, he is font from which Lavellan's will springs. He is the reason and perhaps it is as simple and as complicated at that unfinished thought can be.

Their waltz has always been tantalizingly slow. Some of that is circumstance, the rhythm of the world that pushes and pulls and some is merely the tempo they've chosen for themselves. While the rest of the world frays and scrambles to hold the threads together they refuse to be hurried. Why should Lavellan want it any other way? He has all the time in the world.

But such thoughts have distracted him and he finds that questioning but restrained glance of worry crinkling at the corners of Dorian's eyes. There should be no worry in those soft cloud and honey eyes. For once the night is theirs, for once plans have gone as they should and all surprises have been dealt with as best they can. Lavellan thirsts only to see those worries evaporate. Coveting the shine that lies just beneath it. His fingers grip Dorian's a little more firmly, with a turn he steps just a little bit closer.

But songs are not meant to play forever no matter how much he turns them to repeat. The music dies and then there is no pretense for holding on so tightly. Not that that's ever stopped Lavellan before. It is only the interruption of Sera and Bull a few paces behind her that puts space where Lavellan wishes there were none.

Grinning like a fool and a sloshed one at that, she throws her arms over them both, making kissy faces and slurred jokes that end in giggling before they even have a chance to form. Bull is no more subtle though he holds his liquor better. At length all are laughing at something that shouldn't be as fun as it feels.

"Come on! Let's go find a real party! Real fun. You know what I mean?"

It is the most coherent sentence Sera has managed and somehow through sheer force of will she convinces them of the grandness of this idea. Even Lavellan, who has had other plans teasing through his mind for hours. Even the simple act of sleeping, though that might have been far down the list. Before Sera can usher them out to the nearest pub or house of ill repute, Lavellan pulls Dorian aside, kisses him as long as he dares and tucks a single red silk scarf into the man's pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days since their victorious return and the Herald's Rest still buzzes with the stories. Grand sweeping things, exaggerated by Varric's deft hand and growing with no need for encouragement. Often is Dorian stopped, but where once suspicion had lingered only naked curiosity takes root. He plays his part, keeps himself abreast of the latest additions Varric has made to the tale and give his own embellishments so long as the drinks keep coming.

He has seen little of Lavellan these last few days. They have tried, oh have they tried. Every dinner on the Inquisitor's balcony interrupted, every 'walk' along the ramparts soon joined by the odd scout or advisor in need of advising. It feels almost as if their victory in Orlais is a year in the past and yet the elation still swims among the people he passes as he heads from his upper floor haunt in the tavern to a more favored one in the library.

The night is young, fragrant and blooming with promise. Or perhaps that is merely the scent of the perfumed scarf he finds folded between the pages of the latest tome to catch his interest. This marks the eighth such silk scarf he has 'stumbled' upon since their return. Seventh if he doesn't count the one Lavellan slipped into his pocket that night.

It brings an unbidden smile to his lips as he plucks it from his lap and sighs. He really should talk to the man. If there is no time then perhaps they should make some, have they not earned it?

Dorian sets the book aside with a less licentious bookmark and rises once more from the comfort of his seat. It is almost on memory that he collects the neat little pile of scarves from his rooms and certainly a manner of long practice that he mounts those first few steps to the Inquisitor's suite.

He knocks only once, tries the door and finds it unlocked. Could be an invitation, could be nothing but absent mindedness. He steps forward into the last bit of stairwell lit only by moonlight. This gives him pause as does the lack of noise coming from the room beyond. His thoughts nag, warning him that a sleeping herald should not be so disturbed regardless of the need straddling him. He crests the stairs and feels those fears evaporate.

With a mage's caress of power a dozen candles are lit, throwing shadows as skillfully as they brim with light. The effect is a good one, shrinking the otherwise large room down to an intimate ring of flame, mage and bed.

"I was starting to worry." It is just loud enough to hardly count as a whisper yet too intimate to be anything else and it emanates for the figure seated with his back to the headboard. Dorian sees nothing else in the room after that first glance.

Lavellan's head is resting against the wall and his smirk is inching from amused to pure temptation. He wears nothing but loose black pants and a set of silk scarves binding his wrists to the headboard behind him. The image is so striking, candlelight playing across pale skin in golden glow, the black fabric stark and yet inviting, like a present that knows you want only to unwrap it. Dorian feels his mouth go dry and runs the tip of his tongue across his upper lip just to break the hold of this spell.

"You could have sent a note." Caught between crawling up on the bed and immobility, Dorian settles on that which he knows all too well.

"Nonsense, anticipation is half the fun."

"And if I'd been an assassin and not a dashing mage?"

Lavellan chuckles at that and the sound is infectious. He crooks the forefinger of each hand and draws them slowly downwards while the silken knots at his wrists twist loose under an invisible force.

"Or there's lightning," Lavellan adds with a lazy roll of his bare shoulder as he reverses the gesture and tightens the knots back into place.

"It's a neat trick. But," it doesn't take Dorian that long to recover, it's just been a while. Actually, he's not sure anyone has attempted to seduce him in such a brazen fashion. Whether Lavellan can get his hands free or not, how many men has Dorian known who would willingly take the chance just to tease him? He can't name a one beyond the one he is staring at. "I'm not sure why you felt the need." He means it to be casual but the words catch on vulnerability as they slip from his lips.

"Well," Lavellan sighs with mock consideration. "I thought to myself, suppose a certain handsome mage were to come up here with his silk scarves, and suppose he were to make good on all his teasing with those silk scarves, well I certainly couldn't be expected to resist such a tempting display now could I?" He grins and it is filled with knowing and need. "So I thought it best I restrain myself… you know, just in case."

Dorian slips closer and his ringed fingers wrap one right after another around the nearest bed post. He leans and tries not to let it show how much he thrills to see Lavellan's eyeline follow the movement.

"And what, my dear dear amatus, is to keep me from just ravishing you on the spot?"

* * *

Lavellan can't help the shiver that flickers across his spine.

Dorian has always made it known how aware he is of his own good looks, but sometimes Lavellan wonders if he knows the extent of what he has beyond them. Yes, he is the image of perfection, the sight of him leaning ever so suggestively against Lavellan's own bed is pushing the limits of leash the Herald has wrapped around his own desire. The light catches on the silver adornments that pepper his clothing and draw the eye in with a flash, only to leave it lingering over tight leather and glimpses of tantalizing skin. Even knowing what lies beneath those skin tight clothes does not quell the allure. If anything it only wears on Lavellan's patience more.

"I wouldn't be of a mind to object." Like a game of push and pull neither can help trying to coax the other as if wrestling for control was just part of the appeal. "But it would make gathering all those scarves a bit of a wasted effort."

Dorian laughs and void help him if it doesn't push him that much closer to the edge. Watching the man slip closer isn't helping either for every step is etched in latent power and raw lust that appears ever so effortless. Dorian sits teasingly close and yet those last few inches make Lavellan want to growl in frustration. But that would mean defeat and he isn't ready to submit just yet.

"You've been planning this."

It's not an accusation and yet Lavellan wishes they could be done with talking, just for a moment or two. "And yet you're still two scarves short." A nail tip trails from Lavellan's collarbone to the top of his pants and he doesn't try to hide the jerk of muscles it elicits.

"Not quite." Lavellan exhales with a shudder. When did he become so jumpy? Perhaps he wasn't so far off when he alluded to the draw of anticipation. His own fingers curl on the end of the scarves at his wrists and realization lights behind Dorian's beautiful eyes. Another laugh and it is velvet against the goosebumps upon Lavellan's skin.

"My dear amatus. What am I going to do with you?"

"No idea. But if you've some ideas on what you're going to _do to me_ then I'm all ears."


End file.
